


The Twilight King

by Evandar



Series: The Kings of the North [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Thranduil, Caring Thranduil, M/M, Negotiations, Politics, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:38:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12608840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: After the Battle of Five Armies, winter in the north promises to be a difficult one. For the first time in an Age, Thranduil has decided that there is strength in numbers - now he simply has to explain it.





	The Twilight King

**Author's Note:**

> This is set at some nebulous point after the initial negotiations in _The Kings of the North_ , but before _I Saw Da Kiss the Elvenking_. It's also been sitting on my hard drive for around five or six months, so...

The Lord of Dale is in his hall. Or, rather, what passes for a hall now that the dragon and the battle have reduced Dale to a cluster of crumbling stone walls threaded with ivy and cracked paving. The hall of the King of Men in the North is a canvas tent shored up in what _used_ to be the Dale's meeting hall, and it swarms with people. Thranduil keeps his expression impassive as he sweeps inside, looking over the gathered people for the one he seeks. It doesn't take long to find him. 

For a man so insistent that he is nothing more than a bargeman and an occasional smuggler, Bard certainly gives the impression of a king. Even dressed in rags as he is, he leads his people with an ease and confidence that contradicts his claims. Thranduil studies him as he approaches; notes the silver in his dark hair and the lines by his eyes. Bard of Dale is handsome in the way the Dúnedain are, but the hard years of his short life have made their mark on his noble features. 

A wry smile tugs at the corner of Thranduil's mouth. In a long-ago age, under the trees of a now destroyed kingdom, he had questioned his kinswoman's admiration of a mortal's beauty. Lúthien had laughed at him then and, he has no doubt, would laugh at him now for doing as she once did. 

"King Thranduil!"

His path through the throng of Dale's citizens has been noticed, and the ease with which Bard says his name makes his smile widen in genuine affection. He is glad that Bard no longer hesitates over it; that his deference now is for age and experience rather than simply for rank. Thranduil raises a hand in greeting and when he is close enough, clasps Bard's shoulder. 

The Man's coat is rough and worn, but through it Thranduil can feel the heat of Bard's body and the power of the solid muscles it hides. 

"Mae govannen, mellon-nín," he says just to see Bard's brows furrow. Bard knows near enough to no Elvish, and is - he claims - too old to start learning it. That hasn't stopped him from picking up a few words and phrases - such as the greeting Thranduil has just given him - but it always takes him a moment to puzzle them out. His frown of thought is, at least, endearing. 

"I thought you retired to the forest for winter," Bard says. He has no patience for small-talk and niceties, though he is capable of them. Certainly, Thranduil has witnessed him use half-forgotten etiquette as a weapon in negotiations with the Dwarves often enough. He supposes he should be flattered that Bard disregards them in his presence; that he relaxes enough in Thranduil's presence to be himself. 

"Such was my intention," Thranduil replies. He tightens his grip on Bard's shoulder before releasing him. 

The lines at the corners of Bard's eyes deepen, and although his mouth remains grim it appears that he is smiling. 

"It occurred to me that I may have been heading in the wrong direction," he says. "That our people are stronger together than apart."

It is...an effort to admit as much. From the beginning of his reign, Thranduil has been retreating from the rest of the world; pushed into isolation by estrangement from other Elven realms – a consequence of his father’s devastating last attempt at command – as much as he has by the shadows and spiders spreading from Dol Guldur. Legolas, he knows, finds the isolation stifling, and if the Battle of Five Armies has taught him anything then it is that solitude has become his weakness. His attempts to save his people by sheltering them have done nothing. The Men and Dwarves have suffered too for his withdrawal, and while their lives are naturally stunted, he has a new appreciation for their value. 

Truly, Lúthien must be laughing at his expense in whichever life comes next for Men. 

Bard smiles at him and nods. "I will not deny that your aid will be greatly appreciated," he says, "for there is much work to be done, but...surely your people miss the trees."

"The trees will be waiting on their return," Thranduil replies, "but the shelter of their boughs will mean little without the trade your people may bring us once comfortably resettled here."

Bard reaches for him. His calloused hand grips Thranduil's upper arm tightly, warm and steady through the fabric of his robe. Thranduil has to force himself not to react - Bard's touch makes the air seem to vanish from his lungs. 

"Whatever your motives, you are always welcome here, King Thranduil," Bard tells him softly. He squeezes gently, and releases Thranduil so that he may once again begin to breathe. "Come," Bard continues. "If we are to organise Dale's rebuilding then we may as well do so in comfort - I'm sure I have some of your wine left somewhere."

He follows Bard through the crowd. Whispers follow them, and Thranduil smirks at the tales that reach his ears. The seclusion of his kingdom means that these neighbouring peoples are largely ignorant of Elves and their ways. His own long life - and it has been long even by the standards of his own race - means that he is the only Elvenking they have known. To them, he is born of the trees his people reside in, rather than a dead and distant land; he patrols his woods in the form of a white stag; he bewitches those who cross his path and steals them away to a court of starlight where they may live forever. He wonders, as he follows Bard to a pavilion within the pavilion that makes up his hall, whether any of the gossips actually believe what they are saying. Whether Bard believes any of it. 

He ducks under the canvas flap Bard lifts for him and finds himself in a rudimentary dwelling. There is no finery to be seen: the furniture is a mixture of old and battered, and new and quickly made, and none of it matches. The luxury, Thranduil thinks, may come in the semblance of privacy that the tent offers Bard and his family. Bard's daughters are sitting at a roughly hewn table, occupied with sewing, though they both freeze at the sight of him - the younger gasping with delight at his appearance while her sister appears more reserved even as she stands to greet him. 

"Give us a moment, darlings," Bard says. They leave - the younger girl somewhat reluctantly; she twists round to stare at him even as her sister drags her out of the tent. He feels his smile widen as he watches her - her curiosity is endearing. She reminds him of Legolas when he was of a similar age. His son had been a gangly, chaotic thing with a habit of getting into things he shouldn't. Bard's youngest is much the same. 

"Tilda wonders at you," Bard says. Thranduil glances over to him, and sees that there is indeed wine. Bard is pouring it into a pair of goblets, not looking at him even as he continues to speak. "She listens to rumours and gossip too much. And the Elves who saved my children from Orcs the night the dragon came made something of an impression. 'Fierce and fair' she tells me."

"That is true enough," Thranduil admits. Tauriel had the wild nature that comes so easily to Silvan Elves, and Legolas... Legolas is the perfect combination of his Silvan mother and every rebellious impulse Thranduil has ever managed to suppress in himself. He is indeed fierce and fair, and Thranduil counts himself lucky that he has managed to temper that wildness for as long as he has. What foresight he can claim tells him that there will be a day where Legolas’ lust for adventure will take him far from home, and he knows in his heart that one day his son too will know the pain that comes with loving a mortal. 

"I fear I may become a source of disappointment for her," he says, accepting his goblet of wine. He takes a small sip - it has not been given time to breathe - and leans back in his chair. "No power I hold has granted me the ability to shape shift."

Bard colours as if embarrassed for the stories his kin tell. But he clears his throat and refrains from asking what powers Thranduil holds, instead commenting: "she favours the ones of your twilight kingdom where none may die."

Thranduil can't quite hide his wince. Centuries of isolation have not spared his people from war and death - and while the Halls of Mandos where their fëa rest may not be a true death as mortals know it, it is as close as the Eldar may come. And, for that matter, he can no more prevent a mortal death than he can hold back the tide. 

A glance at Bard shows that his expression is solemn, as if he knows what Thranduil is thinking. Impossible, of course - no Man holds such power - but Thranduil thinks Bard may have come to know him well enough to be able to guess. It is strange that such a thing may have come to pass: his own people think him cold and uncaring after a rule that has lasted for millennia. A mortal he has only known for scant weeks should not be able to read him so well. He turns the stem of his goblet between his fingers, pretending to study the metalwork instead of the Man at his side. 

"There is no magic that can keep Men from their fate save that of a foe far greater and more evil than any child might imagine," he says after a while. "And his kingdom is not of starlight and merriment. But there are shadows in Eryn Lasgalen that have never seen sunlight, for the trees grew thick and dark there before Arien began her journeys through the sky. And so, my kingdom is one of twilight - and it is the stars we awoke under that the Elves love the best."

Bard is staring. His eyes are as dark and deep as the sunless shadows of Thranduil's home, and he longs to study that darkness for as long as he may. Instead, he raises his goblet to his lips and sips again; the wine is more pleasing now that it has had time to air, and he drinks more deeply before lowering his goblet to the table once more and looking Bard in the eye. 

"I am not so eternal as your people believe, and not so uncharitable as mine are inclined to think," he says. "The Elves of the Greenwood will give their aid freely, and I shall seek no compensation from you."

Bard inhales sharply. He has lived a life hard enough to know that nothing is given for free - at least, not usually. Thranduil has surprised him. 

"Your generosity is appreciated," he says quietly. "I... Truly, I have no words to thank you that would do justice."

Thranduil waves him off. "To let your people starve and freeze when there is something I could do to prevent it is a cruelty beyond my capacity," he says. 

"And the Dwarves?" Bard asks. 

For all that his expression is still solemn, there is a note of teasing in his voice. Thranduil glares at him, and yet he cannot bring himself to feel anger. There is a strange sense of satisfaction fluttering in his belly instead. 

"The provisions brought by Dain Ironfoot’s army will not last them the winter and they know as much. I have offered them aid, and they are more than welcome to it – should they decide to ask for it," he says. "But their stiff necks may prevent such an event from coming to pass." He waves a hand. Having lived under the Master's rule, Bard has seen enough of greed to understand what happened after Smaug came. "Thror demanded that my army face the dragon - a mistake I could not bring myself to make a second time. He did not ask me for food or shelter, though Thorin Oakenshield claimed I denied him it. The gold sickness made him prioritise his hoard over the lives of his people."

"A second time?"

Thranduil doesn't wince. Nor does he regret his words, although he will not remove the glamours from his face so that Bard may see the consequences of his youthful folly. "A battle long ago," he says. "I was more reckless then."

"Aye," Bard says. "Only a fool would dare to face a dragon."

"And only a lucky fool would come away from it unscathed," Thranduil replies. 

Bard laughs. It's a rare enough sound that every time Thranduil has had cause to hear it, he has been unable to focus on anything else. Laughter changes Bard; it crumples his face along different lines, making him appear both younger and more handsome. Thranduil permits himself to enjoy the sight of it. He lets a smile curl about his own lips and gazes fondly at the Man over the edge of his goblet. 

Bard, for all the hardships of his life, still finds enjoyment in the world. He inspires friendship and loyalty with ease, and despite his reputation for being grim, he has not lost faith that there will be moments of happiness. Thranduil envies him for that almost as much as he desires to make Bard happy. It has been a long time since he has felt such optimism himself; when he closes his eyes, he might remember the safety of his childhood in Thingol's court. He can recall the merriment of his kin, protected from the Enemy by the Girdle of Melian in those days before the jewel of the Ňoldor stole their king, their land, and their lives. It seems a distant dream, even to him. 

Bard's mirth eases, leaving his eyes bright. Thranduil knows that his affection has been spotted - there is a queer look on Bard's face. One that manages to be both pleased and perplexed, as if Bard has no idea how lovely he is. 

Thranduil looks away. Beren, he recalls, had looked much the same. 

"A party of my people will arrive with supplies in two days," he says. "It would be easier, I think for us to winter here instead of travelling back and forth."

"Of course," Bard says. His voice holds some strange tone of wonder, and Thranduil feels his heart flutter. A confrontation between them will be inevitable, it seems - the long winter that approaches and the close quarters of Dale will ensure it. "You...you truly have enough stores for all of us?"

Thranduil inclined his head. That the Dwarves are not involved - yet - is something of a blessing. Between the three races, there will be enough mouths to feed that he will have to rely on his ties to the other Elven kingdoms to support them all, and he has avoided _that_ for the better part of the Third Age. He thinks of asking Celeborn and Galadriel for help and twitches involuntarily. 

"There will be little spare for luxuries, but we will cope," he says. It's half reassurance and half a prayer to Yavanna, but Bard seems to take his words at face-value. "Though if I may make a suggestion?"

"By all means."

"We send a party of swimmers to the lake," Thranduil says. Bard opens his mouth to object - no doubt on the grounds that the water's chill may prove fatal to one of his race. "The dragon cannot remain there," Thranduil continues. "Not if you plan to fish from those waters again."

Bard's mouth snaps shut. He turns pale, and Thranduil knows he is picturing the potential consequences of eating fish from waters polluted by a rotting dragon. 

"How soon can such a party be gathered?" he asks. 

"Give two days for the supplies to arrive," Thranduil says. "On the third, we shall send out those capable of dragging Smaug from the deeps."

And may Ulmo bless the waters of Esgaroth once more.


End file.
